Huw Knoyle
First Love
Three days out of breezeblock Darwin,
The truck clears its dusty throat
When gears grind synchromesh,
Producing a monoxide gargle,
Keeping this middle of nowhere awake.
Through an infinity
Of paleothic red baked clay and spinifex,
I find her working the gas station,
Her hips wider, her breasts smaller,
Than I remembered once upon a time,
But the same mischief in her Silurian eyes.
In silence, she cups my face,
Searches my eyes for signs of a loved one,
Checks my shoulders for foreign hairs,
Sniffs for telltale traces of perfume,
And satisfied with her inspection,
She lures me into the back parlour,
Where in the drone of a ceiling fan,
Lips to lips, skin to skin,
Passion rose between parted thighs,
And afterwards I told her
Someone else’s jokes.
Page(s) 113-114
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